Everyone comes to get lost in a cantina. The poor, the homeless, the desperate, the criminal, the stowaways—within these filthy walls swells a loose and libertine kinship, where any name, any face might sink amid the liquor and lust. Inside the cantina, anyone can be anyone. Before the bar are heresies spoken. In shadowy alcoves do morals vanish and dreams kindle. It is smoke and sensuality and the splash of credits and ale, where the worries of a tattered galaxy die and a weak and discolored light winks to life.

It is the best place to keep one's ear to the ground. It is the best place for a Jedi to hear information and gather intelligence—and, yes, to have a drink. And Obi-Wan is perfectly content engaging in all these activities simultaneously in this dingy little tavern in the Tatooine city of Anchorhead when he sees the cloaked figure enter.

Slim, average height. Nondescript beneath a woolen cloak that might keep the scorching of Tatooine's twin suns at bay. Obi-Wan feels more than just what he sees, however: There is a bitterness in this entrant. A darkness bred not of malice, nor of poverty or desperation like so many in Anchorhead. It is a shadow, a marred memory, a gash in the Force. An echo of things that were, things that can never be again. Like the ghost of some half-remembered life coming in to toast dreams dead and buried. Obi-Wan looks away from the new arrival as the Crolute bartender taps his empty glass with a fleshy finger. "You want another?"

"The same, again," Obi-Wan murmurs. Two drinks and a little over an hour in and he has learned little so far. Gambling deals gone bad. Off-world romantic partners reminisced. Smuggling shipments delayed. The sort of laments that he might find in any cantina from here to Coruscant. So precious little intelligence to use before heading off to Jabba's Palace tomorrow. Obi-Wan does not want to walk into that den of villainy uninformed, especially if the Hutts truly are up to something nefarious, as Master Windu and Master Yoda deduced.

He chances a quick glance over his shoulder as the bartender pours him another drink. Rothanian light brandy. Terrible stuff, but weak enough so that he can keep a clear head. The newcomer is coming his way.

Obi-Wan glances back to his drink. He reaches down to his waist and dips one hand beneath the edge of his cloak. His lightsaber. Reliability in case his feelings are right—and too often in bad situations they are.

He readies himself. The newcomer is right behind him.

"All the planets in the galaxy, and all the cantinas on Tatooine," a smoldering female voice purrs, "and Kenobi comes to this one."

Obi Wan does not remove his right hand from his lightsaber. "Just sampling the local flavor," he says as the figure claims a seat at the bar next to him. "Is frequenting bars your pastime now, Ventress?"

Beneath her hood, Asajj Ventress's face overflows with annoyance. "Is there a reason you've flown all the way out to this dust ball, Kenobi? If you're looking for Savage and Maul, you're in the wrong place. I have no interest in them after the last time we met. If you're here to drag me off to the Jedi, then I am still not interested."

"I've spoken on your behalf to the Council, to little effect. I am trying to bring them around, but it is a long, long road," says Obi-Wan. "Still, we were far from a bad team the last time we saw one another."

"I have no interest in reliving that, either."

Obi-Wan sips his drink and relaxes. Running into Asajj Ventress is turning into a bizarre string of coincidences. First she had shown up and saved him from Darth Maul and Savage Oppress when they had him beaten and helpless, and now this. Either the Force is working in mysterious ways or it is having a good laugh throwing the former enemies together. "Frankly, I have no interest in seeing Savage and Maul ever again, either," he says, the memories of Florrum and Adi Gallia's death at Savage's hands lurking in his thoughts. "As it stands, I did not come out here for you. I did not even know you would be here."

"You're a terrible liar. There is nothing on Tatooine."

"Yet here you are."

Ventress scowls. Or perhaps that is just her face returning to normal, Obi-Wan thinks. The barkeep taps his fingers on the counter before her and blurts, "You want somethin'?"

Without a word Ventress snatches the bottle of Rothanian brandy. When the barkeep protests, Ventress glares at him. For a moment Obi-Wan thinks she'll draw her blades on him, but then she fishes in her cloak's pocket, withdraws a handful of coins, and tosses them on the counter. "Satisfied?" she growls.

"Look at you. An honest customer," says Obi-Wan as the bartender grumbles. "You really have changed since Dooku cut you free."

"I don't need your patronizing, Kenobi. If you're not here for me, then get lost. I have work to do."

"You don't seem in any hurry."

"Bounties show up when you least expect them to. It helps to be in the right place at the right time," she spits. "It so happens that for bounty hunters, this dump of a cantina is often the right place."

Obi-Wan throws back his drink. "If that's how you make rent these days," he says, "then perhaps you can help me, actually."

"And why would I want to help you?" Ventress says, her eyes shadowed. She takes a long drink from the bottle. "I had hoped to go the rest of my life without seeing a Jedi after we crossed paths with Savage and Maul. So much for my hopes."

"Ventress, I need information about the Hutts. It's critical to the Republic's war effort."

"I don't care about your precious Republic. I hardly care about the war. As long as the clones and the droids don't bother me, then it's all the same," she says, taking another swig. "And you are a fool if you have come to tangle with the Hutts. Even more so alone."

"Why might that be?"

Ventress scoffs and looks at him as if he's an invalid. "They're Hutts."

"It sounds like you know more than that."

"I do not. There are plenty of bounties that do not get you involved with the politics and drama of crime families. Why are you even interested in them? I thought the Republic and Jabba were playing nice ever since Skywalker and his annoying little Padawan got in my way on Teth."

Obi-Wan shakes his head and looks around. Two H'nemthe snuggling up in a corner. A drunken Rodian singing to himself and a pair of empty bottles at a table. A Weequay heckling the cantina band. No one bothering to listen in on them. Still he leans in and lowers his voice: "According to our intel, the Hutts are acting strangely as of late," he says. "The Anjiliac Hutt family has accumulated a great deal of power and influence in mere months, and the rest of the clans seem to be working in concert, as if someone has united them. If that someone is linked to the Separatists, then we risk the Hutts closing off their space to Republic traffic. We can't afford to let that happen."

"So you're going to confront Jabba and accuse him of working with Dooku?" Ventress says. "Good luck with that."

"I had hoped to be a discreet, actually. But now that you sound curious, why don't you come along?" says Obi-Wan. It's a sudden idea, a reckless burst of spontaneity, but the more information he has before diving into the thicket of Hutt filth, the better. Despite Ventress's claims, no bounty hunter worth more than a handful of credits can avoid crossing paths with the Hutts and their business—not if they want to stay in the trade for long. She will know people. She will know things. And, oddly enough, Obi-Wan feels strangely comfortable around his former enemy. As if, without the stain of the Sith and the Separatists on her, she might even be a useful ally.

Not for the long-term, of course. Obi-Wan imagines that she and Anakin would try to kill each other the moment they locked eyes.

"I don't work for free, Kenobi," Ventress says, rolling her eyes, "and I am hardly convinced that running errands for Jedi is going to make for a lucrative career. Or a long life."

"You'll never know if you never start," says Obi-Wan, slapping a handful of coins on the counter. Local currency. Not credits. He knows how it goes out here in the Outer Rim. "All I need is intelligence, Ventress. It's not like I need someone killed. This should be a breeze compared to most bounty hunter work. You want to run away to the Rishi Maze and never see a Jedi again after that, be my guest."

She eyes the money. Empties the bottle. And sighs.

Sleheyron is stone and smoke and sprawl and spice dens. Slums of corrugated durasteel and cobbled-together plastic rise up like Killik mounds from basalt bluffs. A volcanic sky rains down flakes of soot and ash, and the molten breeze reeks of sulphur. In the distance a shield volcano simmers and spits, lava glistening red and angry on the horizon like the waking of some monster of myth that in its stirring might snuff out what dreary civilization clings to this sundered world. As soon as Anakin steps off the Twilight and inhales the stinging air he coughs up half a lung.

But if he thought getting inside would fix the problem, he was most assuredly wrong. The main base of Anjiliac Hutt enforcer Disu Miin—a one-eyed Ishi Tib with a senator-smooth voice and a jagged scrap iron machete strapped to his hip—is a low-slung combination of fortress, marketplace, and brothel where every narrow hallway and cramped room teems with denna spice smoke so thick that Anakin imagines people become addicts just by visiting once. Burly, armed Nikto, Weequay, and other races typical of the Hutt cartels bustle about the base, and a constant stream of Huttese flows like a river. The dim overhead lighting do not help the place's reputation: The ever-present shadows and flickering lights ensure that Anakin is on edge, expecting a vibroshiv to come racing at his ribs from behind every doorway.

At least the air is slightly clearer here in the so-called throne room, even if this dingy den is closer to a lavatory than a royal palace. It's open, if nothing else, and the smoke thins out. On the downside, the wide room is filled from wall to wall with dozens of ugly-faced Hutt goons who look less interested in negotiating with Anakin and more interested in killing him.

Yet Disu Miin, who sits like a petty king of some junkyard empire at the far end of the room, seems willing to talk. "We haven't had real guests in quite some time, Jedi," he says as Anakin and Ahsoka enter. From atop his mounted seat he waves back his enforcers, biding them to part so that the Jedi might step forward. "Actually, we haven't had any real guests. Too busy killing Besadii holdouts to enjoy a little peace and quiet."

One of the Niktos steps up to Ahsoka and points at her lightsabers. "Weapons. Give them here. Now."

"We're not giving up our weapons," Anakin snaps.

"You give them now!"

Miin clears his throat. "They can keep their lightsabers," he says, his voice calm yet firm. "There are a hundred of you. If a hundred men can't deal with two Jedi, then you all deserve to die. Besides, I doubt our guests will cause trouble. We are here to conduct business, not to quarrel." The Nikto snarls but retreats, unwilling to make eye contact with his leader. Miin smiles. "Apologies. I keep the men in line, but sometimes the lessons don't stick. Showing is better than telling, and sometimes that requires examples. Maybe it's time for another one soon."

"I don't care what you do in your base," says Anakin, stepping forward. "What do you want from us? Was that you on the comms in orbit?"

"It was me. And I told you what I want."

"Why'd you shoot at the pirates?" says Ahsoka.

The Ishi Tib snorts. "The Haxion Brood are pests. The Mighty Steno might tolerate them, but if it were up to me, I would stamp them out like the locusts they are. I take whatever opportunity I can to remind them who is in charge."

"And who is that? Who's this Steno the Hutt?" says Anakin.

"The Mighty Steno is the youngest and most brilliant child of His Greatness Gorgosa Anjiliac Medus of Nal Hutta, controller of the Anjiliac Hutt family and rightful ruler of Sleheyron," says Miin. "A fact, might I add, that the Besadii clan seems to ignore. A fact that I want your help in enforcing."

"That's not why we're here."

Miin leans back in his seat. "You have yet to tell me why you are here, Jedi. If I knew that, we could bargain."

Anakin frowns, glances at Ahsoka, and says, "We're here to find a man who had dealings with the Tath family of Taris."

"The Arkanians?"

"You know them?"

"Only from what the Holonet says. I am no ignorant buffoon. I keep up with the galaxy's affairs, and Taris is headline news as of late."

"Then you know they're a threat."

Miin snorts. "I am not concerned about Arkanian nobles, Jedi. The Mighty Steno has more than enough firepower to destroy some silk-robed interlopers. Let them come."

"Wait," interjects Ahsoka. "We're looking for one man in particular. A guy named Garrako Arraton. Have you ever heard of him?"

The Ishi Tib draws in a long breath, stands, and slowly descends from his slapdash throne. He is tall for his species, yet still most of the soldiers around look down at him. Nonetheless, they back away as he approaches Anakin and Ahsoka. "That is an interesting name," he murmurs. "How did you come across it?"

"On Taris. The Taths had evidence that he was helping them in some way," says Ahsoka. "Who is he?"

"One of the Mighty Steno's lieutenants. Until very recently, that is, when he threw in his lot with the Besadii and betrayed us," Miin says. "I have no idea why. The Besadii are almost wiped out; it seemed like suicide. I had planned to kill him."

"Not until we've talked with him," blurts out Anakin.

One of the Weequays jabs at Anakin with his finger and blubbers in Huttese. Like a cat Miin catches the guard's hand, grabs him by his throat, and looks up at him with the diamond-hard certainty of a man in complete control. "Behave yourself. Next time it's your hand. Or your tongue. I will let you choose which," he says slowly. Then he shoves the Weequay away and turns back to the Jedi. "If you want Arraton so badly to solve your Arkanian problem, then help me uproot him."

"How?" says Anakin.

"My most recent reports say that as soon as he turned on us and gave the Besadii holdouts our intelligence, they turned on him. He is a prisoner in their most fortified compound, the former outworld slave processing hubs several hundred kilometers from here near the Panseiros Caldera, an area with active lava flows providing considerable natural defenses," says Miin. "I have been assaulting their fortifications for a week with little success. I have never seen a Jedi fight in person, but I know your reputation. Help me destroy the Besadii, and you can have Arraton all you want."

"What's your stake?" says Ahsoka.

"Pardon?"

"Once you defeat them, then what?" adds Anakin. "How many slaves are in this compound? What happens to them?"

"Ten thousand or so, give or take. A tiny fraction of the numbers that used to go through this world. As for the slaves themselves, I do not care. The Anjiliacs do not bother with the slave trade. It is too unstable. My masters control the largest share of the galactic spice market outside of the Pyke Syndicate's Kessel holdings. We can't turn a profit here, however, with Besadii resistance still entrenched. Finish them off and you have your man, my masters have a whole world to profit off of, and you can rest easy knowing that the slave trade is long gone from Sleheyron," says Miin. "Is it a deal?"

Anakin crosses his arms over his chest and scowls. "I want your word," he growls. "I want your word that they're all freed once we destroy that compound."

"Jedi, you can do whatever you want with them. Ten thousand half-starved slaves are the very opposite of profitable."

"I'll hold you to that, spicer," says Anakin, stepping back. "But fine. You live up to your end of the bargain and we can trade favor for favor."

"Then we have a deal."

Ahsoka lets out her breath. "So, what? Do we drink on it or something?"

Miin scoffs. "I don't partake in trite little rituals," he says. He turns away and tromps back to his seat. "You may leave, Jedi. My men will provide you coordinates outside to our staging ground for the offensive. You can take your own ship there. I will meet you at our forward operating position in a day's time to finalize the attack. That is all."

As Anakin leads Ahsoka out of the facility, his insides twist and contort. The Ishi Tib certainly didn't lack for confidence in the face of two armed Jedi—no simple-minded Hutt thug was this, the kind that might be pushed around to favorable terms with one ignited lightsaber. And Anakin knows that it will almost certainly come to that: There is no way they leave Sleheyron without at least one betrayal. They're Hutt scum. And Anakin will never trust the Hutts, no matter how diplomatic they sound.

"You think we can trust him?" murmurs Ahsoka as they walk past the glaring eyes of a half-dozen vibrosword-armed Weequays. "He gave me a creepy vibe."

"Of course we can't trust him," says Anakin. "We go as far as we can with these criminals on our side, Ahsoka. Eventually they're going to turn on us. And when they do, don't hesitate." Heat boils in his chest. "I sure won't."

For nearly an hour, Tamri has no idea what to do.

Immediately after leaving Sae, she takes the speeder into town and then just sits, watching the mundane business of Alaren pass her by, looking on as residents adorn decorations for the start of the holiday festivities beginning that night. She cannot even think about the festival anymore. She cannot think about anything else except what Sae told her, and those words, those revelations, bubble and steam in her heart like some foul witch's brew overflowing and in its spillage releasing into the world all manner of curse-wrought ills.

Mother. Father. Little sisters. Her family. So close she could fly over and see them in under an hour.

Why did Sae tell her? When she was a youngling thoughts of family stirred in her head, little weightless jellies of questioning and wonder floating around in that primordial sea of childhood imagination. But like so many other whimsies those thoughts faded in time. By the time she was chosen as a Padawan she thought no more: The Jedi Order was her family, just as the teachings of the instructors said. Her friends like Ahsoka and the other members of her youngling clan were like sisters and brothers. Sae…well, Sae is the closest thing she has ever had to a parent. More of a mother than the one who is just a few hundred kilometers away.

And now Sae throws that mantle aside. Tamri is torn: Does Sae want the best for her, or is she trying to get rid of her? Are all of those self-inflicted accusations and criticisms correct? Is she really such a poor, pathetic Padawan that even Sae can't put up with it anymore?

The noble family of Dallin. Go see them. It's not as if you're strong enough to become a Jedi Knight, anyway. If you're going to fail as a Jedi, maybe your family will take you back. Or maybe not. The Jedi are your family, and they can certainly reject you. Sae can reject you.

She hugs herself and slumps down in the speeder. Part of her wants to go, to see them. Not for her mother and father's sake: They have other children, and they parted with her. Clearly they were at peace with her leaving. But if she has sisters, younger sisters, don't they deserve to know they have an older sibling out there in the galaxy? Wouldn't they look up to her, want to know her stories, learn? Even just talk? So many things she has not done in the Order that she could do now. Share their fears, their secrets, their hopes. Envision everything that the future can be when it is so wide open. That freedom. That bond.

But what would she tell them? That, while they have grown up under these wide blue skies, enjoying the privilege of a noble's upbringing, she has slipped down trash-strewn alleys on Nar Shaddaa and slithered through toxic sewers on Belderone? That, while they have learned about the galaxy and how they might find their place in it, she has cut through battle droids and watched clones die? That they are just children, while she, at seventeen, is already a killer?

She holds her lightsaber and stares at it. The separation between them and her. A gulf so wide it stretches the space from Kuat to Coruscant. So casually she carries a weapon of such lethality that it would terrorize her family. How would they ever understand her? How does anyone outside of the Jedi understand her?

Her mind is bereft of answers and she twists in the breeze of her doubts. She knows who she would ask for advice in a situation like this, something tearing at her heart and soul: The very same woman who sent her into this tailspin. Sae. So what would Sae tell her to do? Not the Sae of late, the one who emerged with a murderer's grimace after facing off with Dooku on Ossus and has felt a little more tense and strained with every day that passes on this mission. The old Sae. The one who chose her as a Padawan. The one who gave her hope. The one who was happy to sit with her in the garden and quiz her on her training amid all that soil and life and warmth. What would she say?

The answer seems obvious. The Living Force connects us all, binds all life. Listen to it. Heed its advice. Trust your instincts, even if they don't sound right at first. Stop rationalizing and start feeling. So Tamri does: She lets her thoughts go, as hard as it is. Lets her concerns and anxieties flutter away, if even for just a moment. And she lets the Force in, letting it wind its way through her and into her heart where it might whisper just loud enough for only her to hear.

And when she does, she knows just what to do.

Come sunset Tamri stands in the streets of Alaren amid a thousand revelers. She has traded her traveler's cloak for a loose summer dress in the local fashion, all yellow and orange and bright and warm. Around her is just what she felt in her heart: Life. Dances. Songs. Confetti in the air, streamers dangling from roofs, tables laden with meats and nuts and fresh vegetables and all variety of local delicacies lining the side of the avenue. Cheery floats settle besieged by revelers in the middle of the street. Above it all watch the first stars of evening passing by in their twinkling routes, a far and distant light to shine even as the day bids goodnight.

Tamri has no idea what to do. She watches, idling at the periphery of the celebrations, an outsider with doubts still tickling her mind. Yet slowly, surely, she moves closer. Little by little, step by step. Then, as if with a great leap, she is in the thick of the motion, the bodies, the voices. She opens her mouth to join them, but she does not know the right words. She moves her foot as if to dance, but she does not know what steps to take. So she lets all that life in. She lets a boy take her hand and they twirl and swing about in the middle of all that festivity, and Tamri does something she has not honestly done in a long time: She laughs. She sings. She dances.

"You know what I think? That was a really stupid idea."

"Well, what was I supposed to do?"

"You shut up about it. What does that do for anyone?"

Sae groans and looks away from Neelotas. They are in perhaps the only bar open in the town of Alaren tonight as everyone else here takes to the street to join in the holiday festivities Tamri told her about—and invited her to take part in. Maybe she should've accepted. This is the only tavern here run by an offworlder, according to Neelotas—an old man in his sixties or seventies who gruffed that he was from Carratos when Neelotas asked—and the place feels like a tomb. It is just the three of them, one old man wiping down glasses no one is using and two offworlders getting drunk in a secluded corner of a bar beneath sorry yellow lights.

Tamri might be meeting her birth family right now. Sae wonders what her Padawan will say to them—might say to them, if the girl even mustered enough oomph to go and meet them. Maybe she didn't. The Tamri she knows would probably just be waiting at the ship for her to come back. And, given Neelotas's criticisms, maybe that would be for the best. "Look," she mumbles into a half-empty glass, her third so far this evening, "this is Tam's homeworld. It's her birth family. People should know their family. It's a stupid rule the Order has."

"Yeah? It bother you that much?"

"Me? My parents were absolute garbage who dumped me in an alley near an orphanage as an infant. Tamri's family are nobles. Completely different things."

Neelotas shrugs. "Sounds like you're trying to convince yourself."

"Convince myself what?"

"That it was a good idea to tell the girl about her past."

Sae drains her glass and waves it at the bartender for a refill. He doesn't see her. "Shoot, I don't know. I just…ugh," she grumbles. "I just want to make her happy. To give her a little confidence. She's always so quick to put herself down. Maybe she'd be happier knowing where she really came from rather than following my stupid ass around the galaxy."

"Okay, so this is about you."

"Neelotas, you are really not helping."

He snorts. "Look, I'm just here to drink and spout my opinion in peace. You want comfort, go find a nice man or woman to keep you company for the night."

Sae shakes her head. Her mind feels airy, light. The bartender walks over with a bottle and motions to her glass. "Another?"

"Can you just leave the whole bottle?" blurts Sae. "We're gonna be here for a while."

The old man shrugs. "Sure. Gonna be costly."

"Whatever. Just put it on my tab."

Once the bartender is gone and Sae has poured herself another drink, Neelotas asks, "How'd you and the girl even get together, anyway?"

"What do you mean by 'get together?'"

"I mean, the Jedi just hand out kids or something? You don't seem like the kids type."

Sae breathes out into her glass, fogging it up. "It's expected of all of us. We're supposed to take apprentices. It's just a duty."

"How's it work, though? Like, hey, here's a kid, good luck? That'd be a raw deal."

"Most Jedi choose their apprentices. I chose Tam," says Sae. "Every now and then—year, half-year, sometimes more often—there's a…tournament, of sorts…that Jedi younglings participate in. They compete against each other to show off their skills and what they've learned up to then. Jedi who need apprentices can come and watch to judge which younglings might fit them best. That's what I did."

"So, what, the girl won it?"

"Nah, not even close. I think she was ranked forty-first out of fifty-three."

Neelotas laughs. "Ringing endorsement right there."

"Yeah, it's…eh. I thought her methods were creative, even if she wasn't that strong and placed horribly. I don't know. I just felt good about her."

"So that's how you make your decisions, then. You just feel it."

"Pretty much."

"That makes me feel confident."

Sae snorts and takes a drink. She is not telling Neelotas the whole story. Four-ish years ago, that tournament. She almost skipped it after having just gotten back from a lengthy assignment on Commenor the night before. Most of the younglings had acted exactly how Sae expected of initiates trying to make an impression: They wielded the Force as best they could, swung their practice lightsabers with abandon, confronted one another with bravery and courage. Not Tamri. She'd shied away from open engagements with the other initiates, doing her best to use misdirection and trickery and mundane skills to her advantage.

It had been for naught, in the end: The tournament's runner-up, a Rodian boy named Farno who had died with his master a year ago while facing down a horde of battle droids, had cornered Tamri in a maintenance hallway and made short work of her. Three taps with a practice lightsaber. That was it for each trainee. Three taps had taken Farno seconds. In the end, as youngling after youngling was chosen by other Jedi Knights and Masters, Tamri had stood watching, waiting, neglected, and on the verge of tears. And that, Sae thinks, was really it. It wasn't Tamri's skills, in truth, that won her over. Sae had just wanted to help her out. Pull her out of a dark place and show her the light. She had taken on a challenge, confident in her own skills as a Jedi Knight and as a teacher, despite having never trained anyone before.

And where has that gotten her? Drinking in a Kuati bar with a Nautolan mercenary, so much of Tamri still the same as back then. It isn't the girl's fault they are here. It is Sae's. Maybe Sae shouldn't have picked a Padawan while running on two hours' sleep after returning from a four-month mission. Maybe she shouldn't have listened to her gut about picking Tamri, despite Master Gallia's approval afterwards. Maybe she was never ready to become a mentor in the first place, despite being older than many Jedi Knights when they first took Padawans under their wings. Maybe nothing that has happened should ever have happened. Maybe there is only what might have been.

But Sae cannot go back and change things now. She can only keep going. There is only forward.

"I'm gonna take this outside," she mumbles to Neelotas, holding up the bottle. She refills his glass. "Gotta get some air."

"Suit yourself," he says with a shrug.

Outside the bar, Sae sits down on a bench, takes a swig from the bottle, and looks up at the stars. The bright lights of the town festival mute the night sky, but the brightest of distant suns still shine through. Little flecks of hope in the darkness. Tiny signs that there might be something beyond all of that black.

Sae sits the bottle down. She does not know what to do anymore. Master Gallia is gone. Almost everyone she cared about is gone. Even people she barely knew are gone because of her, like Falco and his clones on Belderone. Yet she is still here, still making mistakes, still messing everything up, as if her life is some great joke being played upon her from on high. As if she is cursed to watch impotently as everything unfolds, as every last seam and stitch in the galaxy comes apart until only she is left alone amid ruins. Just like the vision on Ossus. With too much liquor swirling around in her veins, she admits to herself what has been lurking in her thoughts for too long, what she has always been suppressing: She does not even know how to begin figuring things out.

She digs around in her cloak until she finds it, buried in a deep pocket: The moon's grief blossom she plucked on Ossus. That sight of Tamri kneeling among the flowers in that temple cavern. A little burst of pure happiness. But now the flower is dead and dried and withered, just as ugly as any other dead thing in her hands, smashed and torn from riding around in her pocket ever since leaving that blasted world.

She presses her palm to her face, clutches her fingers around the dead flower, closes her eyes, and cries.